Going On
by Arilaen
Summary: S2 - IMTOD, slight AU. The boys live through IMTOD and try to deal with its events, as well as the consequences of one of their injuries. Two-shot  right now...?  No beta. T due to language.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: This is based on events and characters on a TV show. I don't write TV shows... Need I say more?

Author's notes: This is probably going to become a longer story, I'm not sure of the schedule yet. I may go crazy and post more today, or I might wait until I have more real free time.

Set in S2, In My Time of Dying (2x01) AU - will get more AU after the first chapter.

Reviews would be VERY appreciated! Yay feedback!

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><p>Chapter 1<p>

Lights. Razors of glass tearing through skin. Flashing. Darkness. Then nothing, for a long time, with vague feelings of discomfort – body moving and being prodded with him only feeling it all through a string.

There was awareness of all this, first, almost at once. Then the world materialized again. Something heavy on his hand, pushing it down into some soft but unmoving surface. The mattress. His head – his forehead, thereabouts – felt heavy too, but not from something on it. It was numb. The numbness felt stranger than a headache, but it would probably turn into pain if he thought about it too much anyway.

There was something light covering him from the chest down – a sheet – he imagined it was blue on top and white on the sides, while everything else was black... brown... and white ceiling, white light to the side. The room came into focus as he blinked slowly, then faster.

And the knowledge that had been in the back of his mind, hidden somewhere, came to the forefront: I'm in the hospital. In a hospital room. I don't remember why...

He slowly sat up, wincing with his chest and ribs. They felt like they were just bruised - nothing there was wrapped or broken, but they would probably hurt like hell for a bit.

There were two brown chairs by the door. He knew that there was no one, at least no one alive, that would visit him in Stan-

Wait. He wasn't in Stanford. This was the middle of nowhere. By some crappy hotel in some not-so-quiet small town. Although the room was pretty nice for a nowhere not-important hosp-

Wait. Dean. And... and dad. John had been there. He hadn't been himself. He'd torn into Dean and Sam shot right up upon remembering that, and he himself had been at the wheel of the car, going to save Dean, and they were talking and...

There was the road and then there was a push and screech and getting crushed and...

Yellow Eyes got us after all. Sam didn't know how that thought, out of everything in his foggy mind, came up at the right time, and felt slightly more certain to him than anything else he'd thought right then, because he would not have crashed the car himself.

But then there it was, delayed, again – a wave of uncertainty about what had caused the crash. But Sam didn't want to think about it. Not the time.

Nurse. Doctor. Button. By the IV in his hand. Sam was on his own two feet, IV still in place, so no one would waste time worrying about him or fixing that before. Before he saw Dean.

He pressed the button.

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><p>"Sir, we can't let you get discharged AMA until we have..."<p>

"Yes, you can. I'll take the meds I need." His head was much clearer, even if it was numb. They said he didn't have anything major, or that probably wouldn't clear up soon – but they wanted to 'observe' him. He wasn't wasting time waiting to be observed, or half a day on tests. Not now. He needed to see his brother. Dean. Dean who was now "in critical condition."

At least he had that one clear thought – find and see Dean – until he walked in the room and saw him. His big brother. Who could take on the world with his smart-aleck face. "No chick flicks, Sammy." Paler than the sheets around him, vessels red and burst around his eyes and the... breathing tube...

You don't deserve this. You're a healthy young man that still has half the vampires and half the clubs in the country to conquer. You can't leave me. You can't look like this. You have to be my big brother. Open your eyes. Please.

He remembered Dean with his mouth stuffed with an entire cheeseburger, so his cheeks filled like a pufferfish, Dean driving and singing along with Metallica, Dean standing by and quietly handing him a sandwich the week after they left Stanford...

And he walked out of the room, and didn't think about anything.

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><p>"Sam?"<p>

Sam looked up, startled for a second – where am I? - and then remembered seeing the door to John's room in the hallway, and opening it.

His dad was in bed, hurt bad enough to have to stay there, with a broken leg that was tired up so much it looked painful just hanging there, but at least he didn't look d- (He didn't finish that thought.)

John asked some questions, and Sam heard himself answer robotically, but he was feeling disconnected again. Yes, I'm fine. Yes, I know about Dean. I saw him.

Then quietly, but loud enough to break through the haze.

"You should have killed it."

"No," Dean said, held against the warehouse wall, before coughing blood, dribbling down his chin.

"No," Sam said. "Don't say that."

"You know we've been chasing that thing all your life. This was our chance! And now look where your brother is. And for what? That demon is still..."

"You know what, dad? Screw you." He turned and walked out.

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><p>He called Bobby. It hadn't been a minute before Bobby was asking for the address for insurance information, as legit as they could get - "just in case." He called the people that knew where the Impala had been brought, in pieces, and then asked Bobby to find it and keep it safe. "So he can fix it."<p>

Bobby had been quiet. Then said, "You all come on over here when you're out of there."

And then, "How you holding up?"

"I'm walking." Breathing. Handling the papers. Tired. Can't sleep. Can't find my brother.

"It's some kind of miracle... no injuries..." he heard nurses say as they came from that end of the hallway, before they passed him.

But following them was the doctor, who stopped in front of Sam, and put his hand on his shoulder.

"Your brother..."

Is sitting up in bed, eyes open and bright, blood in his cheeks where it should be, with that huge grin on his face.

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><p>"Sam, you're such a girl..."<p>

He's not going anywhere, whatever he says. Even if that means he's a girl.

"No chick flick moments, okay? Hey, enough attention already, I'm more worried about you. I'm apparently the one with the get out of jail free card, or whatever it is.

"Something feels fishy about this... did you do something? Do you know what could have done this?"

He wanted it to be god. He wanted it to be an angel. He wanted it to be someone up there that had decided to finally cut the Winchesters a break. Or a hidden power in Dean or something. If he had to be stuck with visions of murders, it was only fitting that the fates give Dean everything good. Because that was Dean.

He wouldn't listen to any other possibilities. Wouldn't think or dream of them. He had almost been out of gas. Sat down on a bench, felt his head shut down more often. But now... there was a reason to keep going. His energy came back as fast as adrenaline.

His father wheeled over to see Dean too, alone, and Sam took the moment to swallow some meds, lean with his head back on the bench in the waiting room area, and then wonder whether these meds really did anything. Or if they were just your standard 'post-car crash' meds. Not that he was a doctor or anything.

And then he realized that for the first time since he had fully woken up, he was thinking about something other than Dean, the crash, or death. And he finally had enough energy to nod off, and take a nap that was... peaceful.

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><p>He woke up and immediately remembered: Dean's alive. A nurse was standing next to him on the left, saying his name hesitantly.<p>

"Your father, John Winchester, wanted to see you?"

So he walked to the room, this time looking at the tiles on the floor and then the popcorn ceiling in the hallway on the way.

He came in, and John had this... look on his face, that wasn't just happiness for Dean's recovery.

"Do you know anything?" Sam said.

"Dean seems fine. I am... so relieved." John paused, as if he was going to say something else, and then shook his head, then smiled a rare, warm smile. "I'm happy beyond words that you boys are alive and well. And you don't have to worry about anything happening to him. I've looked into it."

"You have? What did you find out? What is it?"

"It's not important at this point. Trust me. And Sam, sorry, but mind grabbing me some coffee? With milk?"

"Not black?"

"That's right."

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><p>Sam carried the coffee, thinking about mending bridges, finally. He hadn't taken back those words, "screw you," yet. He would tell his father that he understood him, even if he didn't agree with him.<p>

I didn't lose you, he wanted to say. And I don't know what you or whatever angel did, but we haven't lost Dean either. We're a family. Let's try being a family again. Please?

He had thought it all out until he saw his father facedown and still, fallen on the ground. Lost in the end. That's when Sam knew that either way, no matter what he did, he would always lose.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Which should be obvious.

Author notes: Just updated slightly to fix a POV shift. Was going to be a two-shot, but I do have an idea for continuing this, whenever I find time again. (Reviews may lead to a much faster update! Any feedback is greatly appreciated!)

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><p>Chapter 2<p>

_Bobby's yard, two weeks later_

"Sam, hurry up! I don't have all day to wait for you."

"Sorry."

"Would you stop saying that? Is that the only word you know these days?" Dean said, standing by the truck Bobby had lent them. The Impala was still a week and a few parts away from being "good as new." A one man job that could not be taken more seriously than the owner of an Impala '69 himself.

"So- okay." Sam walked slowly to the truck, put his hand on the door, and lingered at the handle for a few seconds.

"You coming in today or what?" Dean was already falling into the driver's seat.

"Uh... coming." The door opened, and Sam slid himself inside. He closed the door, closed his eyes, and leaned against the window.

"Fucking groceries." The engine hacked a bit and then got going, and the truck carried the boys back onto the road.

Dean glanced at his silent brother. Is he sulking? Or brooding? What makes him think he can, when I'm the one that has to live knowing that I'm supposed to be...

"Fucking music. Bet you none of these stations have Metallica. Just fucking country crap. And that one station with all that emo shit you like. Don't even think about it."

Sam turned at that, hesitated. "You okay?"

And everyone knows that's the most idiotic asshole's question in the world. Not the first time Sam had asked. The kid wanted them to have a freaking sob fest, all over each other's shoulders or something. But Sam didn't understand. He didn't think. Maybe he didn't want to think – after all, he was always forgetting little things or going off into his own world. Trying to wallow in misery or something instead of going on. When there was no reason for him to. When he should know that no amount of brooding would fix this, because it couldn't be fixed. He wasn't the one supposed to be...

"Fucking truck is going at fucking twenty miles an hour, you'd better work on your conversational skills or I'll leave you by that sign up there and pick you up in about four hours."

"Er, okay."

Wait. Another beat. There. No "sorry"s or quiet "want to talk"s. Someone was finally learning. Maybe Dean could upgrade his passenger in shotgun from a basset hound to a poodle. An 'upgrade' in terms of intelligence, at least. Dean didn't know what the sense of humor of a poodle was. Just find the most boring poodle on the planet, and there you go. Hi little brother. Nice to meet you.

"Dean... we're just going for groceries, right?"

Wow. This guy's giving poodles a bad name. Maybe he's a disowned poodle. "Where else would we be going? There's food, and there's bed, and there's the Impala. See? Pick one out of three. And if you miss I'll get the counterfeit agency or whatever to check your big S diploma."

"I..." A beat. Then another. Then, "I wasn't sure if I had told you this, but I was going to the clinic sometime this week, and perhaps we could stop by there today."

"Why? What's wrong?"

"Before I signed out of the hospital, they told me that I might space out a bit for a few weeks. They gave me stuff to help me, um, concentrate, but I'm running low. So I just wanted to go so they could see me and give me a refill."

The road was asphalt, like always, ahead of them. Every tree looked the same. They probably were all the same in this state of no what-do-you-call-it – biodiversity – ever. North Dakota. Every road and town and tree exactly like the one before it.

Dean noticed all this because he was looking for a pond or river or fucking ocean to throw his brother in. Not that he had ever seen the ocean in person. But it would be awesome to dump all six plus feet of that idiot fifty feet off the coast and leave him to fight the sharks and Loch Ness Monster or whatever. Dean was sure it visited the Atlantic sometimes. Or Pacific. He was flexible.

"And you didn't tell me for two weeks because..."

"Dean, it's honestly not a big deal. It's a short term issue, and not uncommon for people in crashes. If it was worse I would tell you."

"Yeah, sure, because you tell me everything."

"Dean..."

He kept driving. The truck started going faster, maybe because it saw that he was now aiming for the Atlantic, and was adjusting its pace accordingly. Faster as in 35. Then again, it would go faster off a cliff.

"So is this a concussion complication, or what?"

"Dean, I space out. You've probably noticed, and I'm sorry, but that's basically what it is..."

"Tell me what it is, Sam."

"It sounds worse than it is."

"I will drive this scrap metal off a cliff if you don't tell me." And whoa, that was a little louder than normal, and Sam was staring at Dean with those wide eyes. But Dean didn't care.

"Sometimes I get petit mals, that's when I space out for a few seconds or more..."

"The fuck is a petit malo?"

"It's a type of seizure, but not a grand..."

"Seizure?"

Dean prided himself on his driving. Even in the rare case when there's a ghost on the highway, he only swerves about an inch. Certified and confirmed by... the Winchester Family Business and Co. So he swerved slightly here, just about two inches, and Sam naturally freaked out. Because he's a poodle. A poodle that suddenly gained the ability to bark.

"Dean! It's not what you're thinking! Not a grand mal! I can show you articles about what I have! They say that just spacing out, and some confusion are things that I can expect for a few weeks to two months, from this injury, and there's nothing to worry about now..."

"Yeah, tell me there's nothing to worry about when we have nobody else, when I have nobody else, and I'm your big brother and cleaned up your vomit after the flu you had when you were five and wrote your sick notes in middle school and even had made you stay home because we both know you're actually a dumbass. You damn well better tell me everything and listen to me."

And yes, this wasn't one of Dean's most eloquent days. But he could be a big brother when he needed to. It's his job. Always has been.

"I'm sorry, Dean."

"Stop saying that. How many times have I told you to stop saying that?"

"I... I didn't mean to, I..." Sam was nervous, but he trailed off mid-sentence, and Dean glanced at him and saw his eyes stare at a tree, or maybe the other one, because they were all the same. And then he blinked and looked at him.

"Sorry, I was saying, crap..." Sam looked away. Dean waited a split second and then thought, are you fucking kidding me?

And then Dean said, "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"It tends to happen when I breathe fast. Hyperventilation, although I think I'm just tired today."

"Is that what you're talking about? Not a problem? Did this happen, when you were getting in the car, and then just now, after you just talked about it? How many petit mals is that a day? When you're walking around looking like a space cadet? Does it happen every hour? Every half hour? Every fucking five minutes?"

"It can happen more often right after the trauma, but it should start getting less common in a few weeks. I think the most common it has been is an hour, but I don't always know..."

"Fuck groceries. Where's the clinic?"

Shit, Dean thought, if I was gone, who would take care of this dolt of a brother? Dad wasn't the one that looked out for sickness or injuries – that was on me.

At least that's some small comfort. Freaking Sam. Damn him for needing me to take care of him even now. And me, for needing him.

What's wrong can't be fixed, but I still have him, and I'll make sure he gets it through in that thick skull of his that he still has me.

(But he's still not getting any chick flicks.)


End file.
